


I'm Sorry, John.

by HumanError



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, POV Sherlock Holmes, PTSD, PTSD John, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3160061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanError/pseuds/HumanError
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been depressed. Not eating, barely sleeping, isolating himself away in his room for hours upon hours. The nightmares had been getting worse. The times he had managed to steal a few hours sleep had been interrupted by the horrors of the war that were haunting him once again</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sorry, John.

He had been depressed. Not eating, barely sleeping, isolating himself away in his room for hours upon hours. The nightmares had been getting worse. The times he had managed to steal a few hours sleep had been interrupted by the horrors of the war that were haunting him once again. 

On more than one occasion he had woken up screaming, terrified, afraid. I would be in his room immediately, trying to calm him down, to soothe him. Let him know that he wasn't in Afghanistan, not anymore.

My presence helped him slightly. I would hold him in my arms, running my thumb ever so gently across the creases of his palm in a comforting gesture. Usually it would work after a while. Sometimes it didn't. Sometimes I would hold him and he would be shaking, quivering so much, flinching at the slightest of noises.

Those nights were the worst. I was powerless. Couldn't save him from the ghosts that tormented his mind and mocked him.

I never did figure out how to do that. I will never forgive myself for that. Ever.

I should have realised sooner. The night before it happened, he had woken me up with the most awful, blood curdling scream. I didn't even have to think before I had abandoned my experiment and raced upstairs. By the time I had reached him he was bundled up in the corner of the room, duvet cover wrapped tightly around him as way of protection. In the dim light I could tell that he was sweating and shaking, panicking so much.

Lowering down to his level so as not to frighten him, I edged closer, my hands out to show him that he shouldn't be afraid of me. I had only managed a couple of steps before he pulled the gun out and fired in my direction, thankfully missing.

It was only after the shot rang out did he realise what he had done and dropped the gun, letting it clatter to the floor. His hand retreated and covered his mouth before mumbling out an apology, his voice tiny through his sobs.  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ He repeated it over and over again as I wrapped him in my arms, pulling him into a hug.  _Forgive me, please. I'm so sorry._ _  
_

* * *

 

It never meant to happen like that. It shouldn't have had to be like how it was.

* * *

 

I found him later that evening and I knew that it was too late. He was laying in the bath, no clothes on, in a pool of his own blood. No water. Just blood.

I should have phoned the ambulance straight away. Or Lestrade. Or someone. Anyone.

Instead, I made my way over to him, my legs barely supporting my weight, almost collapsing beneath me. I feel ill. I want to throw up. Want to scream. I don't look at his face, or in the bathtub where there are fragments of bone and brain and blood spattered around in it. I don't think as I lift his knees with my arm and wrap the other one around his shoulders, lifting him out of the tub.

I don't look at the gun discarded on the floor.

I do speak to him.  _I'm sorry, John._ I say.  _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I couldn't save you._

And we stay like that. Together.


End file.
